Chapter Two
Christie Lockheart stood at her bedroom window looking out onto the world. She lived ten floors up in a decent-ish apartment building, but the view left a lot to be desired.
The streets below were crowded, cramped, and polluted. People hollered at one another at opposite sides of the road while others dodged the crazy traffic rather than waiting to cross. It didn’t matter that it was close to nine in the evening—it was ridiculously busy. Always was. That was the joy, or the nightmare, of city living.
It was home. It had been for the last five years since she and her husband had moved in here. She’d lost him and two babies in this apartment. The miscarriages had been hard to handle, but losing Jake had triggered a depression that far outweighed the grief she’d felt over losing those two small lives.
She should have moved then, should have left this place with all its memories, but something had kept her here. Not just in the building, but in Texas.
Christie was small-town Illinois born and bred. Her then-boyfriend, Jake, had worked in the oil industry straight out of college and she’d moved to be with him.
After Jake had gone, and all ties to this place too, she should have moved back home. Only she hadn’t. Even though it was loaded with memories, most of them miserable, she still had the good and the great times with Jake to keep her going, and until recently that had been enough.
She’d been low for two years now, licking her wounds and living from day to day for all that time. The only thing that had shaken her out of the stupor was the inmate at one of the jails where she worked. She traveled around in her position, working at several different jails a week.
James Aston had come into her clinic with a broken tooth. She’d had to remove it, as the fracture was severe. It was a damn waste. In her private practice, she’d have built the tooth back up. The job would have been easy, if a little costly. But in county jail, what couldn’t be solved cheaply was yanked out.
She’d seen him for all of five minutes. She’d checked the tooth and seen how the fracture was only going to worsen with time. Christie had even taken note of how soon he was due for release, but she knew that two weeks of eating even the softest, mushiest foods would cause irreparable damage. Not even the best in the business would be able to salvage it. And so, with a heavy heart, she’d had to pull the tooth.
It had been a routine job. Nothing difficult about it. But the man himself had changed everything. When he’d come into the clinic, chained up as he was, their eyes had met and something had flushed through her.
She’d never been hit by lightning, at least, not the physical kind, but James had been a bolt of electricity all his own.
Christie had pushed off the attraction that had flared out of nowhere. She’d shrugged at the need that had come with the inappropriate flare of desire for an inmate—even worse, a patient.
It had been hard, one of the hardest things she’d ever had to endure in her life—and she was a widow with two lost babies under her belt. And all under the age of thirty.
She knew what hard was.
When the prison guard stared off into the distance, falling into the half-snooze she was used to when they stood in surgery with her, she’d been hard pressed not to stroke Aston’s jaw, to touch him, to breathe in his scent.
She was ashamed to admit that when she’d lowered her face to his to start the procedure, once he’d been knocked out with a sedative, she’d taken a whiff of his hair. Silky golden brown hair that had made her palms itch with the need to stroke it. He had smelled like prison soap, but beneath it all, she’d smelled man. Woods. Nature.
The latter was impossible in a county jail. The nearest thing to nature there was the sparse grass outside in the yard, but most of that had worn away to sand and grit in the heavily used areas.
And yet, James Aston’s essence had been woodsy and raw. It had fired her blood even more.
To this day, she could feel the power of the moment… the power of their meeting.
It was why, at eight-forty in the evening, when she was ordinarily tucked into bed watching TV before hitting the lights to go to sleep, she was at the window staring out at the world.
He was a free man now.
Though the action had surprised her, she hadn’t been able to stop herself from noting his release date. It wasn’t like she was going to act on it, not like she even could, but something inside her felt a little more at ease today knowing he was free.
A man like that shouldn’t be locked up. It would kill him from the inside out to be sequestered away, unable to roam the land, to be free.
In a way, prison was the best and the worst punishment for a man like him, although she’d seen in his case files that he’d served time before.
Recidivism wasn’t unusual in this country. She’d even treated inmates several times serving different sentences, but it had shocked her that this man was a reoffender.
She didn’t know how, but she knew he needed space, freedom, and the ability to be close to nature. But at fifty—his age had stunned her too—if he hadn’t learned by now, he never would.
Which was what had made her attraction to him all the more peculiar—an attraction that wasn’t going away.
For the first time since Jake had died, she’d touched herself, even going so far as to buy a vibrator online. The first time she’d used it, she’d gone off like a rocket, and the need James Aston had stirred had been quenched.
Just as she’d been settling down to sleep though, the need had reared its ugly head once more.
She’d used the damn vibrator so much that first night, the battery had run out. She had to charge it every day now because at night, she used it until there was no more charge left.
With Jake, Christie had had a moderate sex drive. He’d been hornier than her, and she’d let him make love to her even on occasions where she would have loved to just roll over and sleep. But out of nowhere, this endless desire for a man who should have revolted her wouldn’t quit.
She’d never known anything like it. The desire for Aston wasn’t something she could make sense of, nor was it something that could be rationalized.
For the past two weeks, she’d felt like ants were crawling under her skin. Only release staved off the sensation, but not for long. Enough to let her sleep, but not enough to get her through the days.
She’d bought another vibrator yesterday. And though shame had filled her, she’d taken it to work and used it in the bathroom. Getting off there had made her feel shady and dirty, but the fire-ant sensation had driven her around the bend. She’d felt like screaming—like pulling her hair out at the root.
And it was getting worse. The need and the desperation were circling ever lower until she didn’t know what depths she’d be driven to.
A well of panic in her gut tried to bubble up, but she refused to let it free. She’d only climaxed twenty minutes ago, and her body was at ease and would remain so for another hour at least.
She felt almost drugged with relief, as sated as she was capable of at late.
A shudder rushed through her, and she pressed her forehead to the cold pane of glass before her. It soothed her burning skin with its icy chill, but she could feel the heat in her core fire up again. It was on a low simmer and would stay that way for a little while, but a whimper escaped at its resurgence.
Her breath gusted out onto the window, blurring her vision of the outside for a second, and then a rumble sounded in the street. That it was loud enough to be heard at such a distance had her frowning and peering through the mist her breath had made. She wiped it and looked down, spying a bike and its rider coming to a halt near her building.
It was a special bike. Even though she knew nothing about motorcycles, she could tell that. It had those big handle bars, and the rider sat up tall rather than straddling the body. He wore a helmet that reminded her of Sons of Anarchy—hell, she missed that show—and the leather jacket he wore swung aside to reveal something that looked like a cut. Of course, from this distance, Christie could have been wrong, and it could have been her imagination, but she knew when she climbed back into bed with her vibrator, she’d be imagining a biker between her thighs, his leather cut and patch hanging off the knob at the foot of her bedstead.
Her lips twitched at the notion. Her mind had been getting increasingly dirtier of late. She’d started watching porn and reading erotica—especially MC erotica.
It probably made sense. She’d seen from James Aston’s tattoos that he was in an MC. And The Nomads were infamous in these parts. It was yet another reason that her attraction to him was insane.
Thinking about the last book she’d read, where a couple had defied gravity and had sex on a bike, she retreated from the window and headed back to the bed. After grabbing her vibrator, she climbed between the sheets once more, spread her legs, burrowed a hand beneath her favorite flannel PJs, and was about to pose the vibe straight on her clit when the buzzer sounded.
Frowning and flustered because she really needed to come now, Christie climbed off the bed and wiped a hand over her sweaty brow.
“Who is it?” she asked, after heading down her minuscule hall to the entryway and depressing the button on the intercom.
There was the sound of a throat clearing. “Ma’am, this is going to seem mighty strange, but it’s James Aston. I don’t know if you remember me?”
Remember him? She couldn’t get him out of her head!
Every instinct she possessed was screaming at her, demanding she let him in, drag him to her, mount him, and fuck him like there was no tomorrow.
But the rational side of her brain, which was slowly diminishing over time thanks to her hormones, was thankfully making a disturbed clucking sound.
Her voice was disgustingly breathy, and she wished like hell she sounded a little stronger, but she managed to bark, “How did you get this address?”
“Does it matter?” he asked, his tone husky, deep. It raked over her like silk, and her body started hollering, ‘No! No! It doesn’t matter. Please, come and fuck me!’ but she managed to browbeat it into submission.
“Of course it matters,” she squeaked. “What do you want?”
“Don’t you know?” he countered.
That had her blinking. Did that mean…? Did he feel the same as her?
“I came as soon as I could,” he told her, sympathy and concern ebbing and flowing as he spoke. “I only just got out today, and as soon as I got your address, I came. I swear it. I-I know you must be suffering.”
His words unlocked something inside her. Tears welled, and the back of her throat was suddenly clogged with emotion. She couldn’t speak… she was wordless. The need that was bombarding her was… he shared it?
They were suffering together?
Was that even possible?
“Christie?” he asked softly, more concern aimed her way. “Are you still there?”
“I’m here,” she whispered.
“I know you must be frightened. I know it, and I’m so sorry for it. I would have done anything to have spared you this. Anything. I promise.”
She licked her lips, pressed her head to the console, and let the wall keep her upright. “What’s happening to me?” she asked, her voice half-wail.
“Can’t we talk about this inside your place?” His request was careful, free from pressure.
“I-I, maybe.” She shuddered when the fire ant sensation reared its ugly head again. His voice had triggered it, and now it felt worse than it had ever been. “Just explain that, please,” she gasped. “Help me understand what’s happening to me.”
A groan powered through the intercom. “I…” He hesitated again then his tone quietened to a low whisper. “I’m a Shifter, Christie.”
For a second, the fire ants dispersed. Like the red sea parting for Moses, they rushed away, leaving her clearheaded for the first time in weeks. “A… Shifter?” she repeated blankly.
Did it make more sense now that she knew he was a Shifter—one of the elusive creatures that everyone knew about but few actually knew? They lived solitary lives, hiding in plain sight, for the most part. Living among humans but remaining at a distance from them too.
The crazy sensations she’d been experiencing of late didn’t seem so crazy now. He was a Shifter, and that was why her reaction to him had been so off the charts.
Although, why had she reacted to him at all?
She shook her head, managing to figure out what he was about to say before he had the chance to say it.
“No,” she bit off. “You’re not my mate.”
He sighed like he’d expected her denial. “Your body’s telling you differently, isn’t it?”
Christie felt the fire ants return. God, they were driving her insane with the pinpricks of pain that retreated into a well of pleasure so strong it created an agony of a different and utterly unique nature.
She bit back a gasp but managed instead to groan out, “What did you do to me?”
“I didn’t do anything. You know I didn’t.”
She did, logically. He’d just laid there in her chair. She’d been the one doing something—she’d pulled out his tooth, dammit! But something was going on. Stuff like this didn’t just happen, for God’s sake.
“Then why am I—?” she cried out as her core began to burn. It was almost like hearing his voice, the man who had instigated this whole situation, was ratcheting up her body’s need.
Every part of her felt aflame.
God, how she needed.
“Let me up there, Christie. Please.” His pleas hurt her ears. He was a stranger, yet he was doing this to her—making her feel things no other ever had, not even her husband.
She shook her head at the thought, feeling like a disloyal slut. She was in control of her body. She was. So why did Christie want to heed its call for James Aston? Why was it begging her to let him come up to help her through this?
“Baby, please,” he whispered, and his words caressed her ear drums. “Let me help you. You’re mine. I protect and care for what’s mine.”
“I’m no one’s,” she denied on a snarl. “I’m my own.”
“No. You’re not. You’re mine.” Then, like an afterthought, he added on a whisper so soft, so gentle she wouldn’t have thought a man like him capable of it, “As I’m yours.”
That made a difference, crazy though it was. She sniffed, touched despite herself by his tone, and then bit off, “What are you going to do to me?”
A harsh chuckle traveled through the intercom. “I think you know, sweetheart.”
Her pussy clenched at the promise in those words. She’d never wanted anyone so much, needed them so desperately.
It was almost like it wasn’t her body that was in control, and she had to reason that it wasn’t. She watched as her hand lifted to depress the button that would let him in.
When the buzzer sounded, they both let out shaky breaths.
“I’ll be up in two minutes.”
His words were a vow, and she swallowed, saying nothing, desperate to heed his words.
Christie opened the door, incredulity hitting her at what she was doing. She was opening up her home to a stranger… someone she’d only met once, and in jail, for fuck’s sake. But nothing had ever felt more right.
The fire ants had been held at bay, almost as if her body was fundamentally aware that the solution to her problem was close at hand.
She whispered, “Please hurry,” but knew no one would hear her words. Hopefully, the man was in the elevator by now, coming to her as quickly as he could.
Standing in the hall in front of her door, she had a perfect view of the elevator. A tremor coursed down her spine as she watched, waiting for the ding to sound announcing his arrival. When it finally came, she half-sagged against the door jamb, relief hitting her that he was finally here.
When he headed out into the corridor, head turning left and right to see which direction he should travel, James spotted her and made a beeline toward her.
She was a sure thing—they both knew it. And yet he didn’t strut. He wasn’t cocksure. He didn’t prowl toward her with the smug surety of a man who knew he was going to get laid.
There was a wistful expression on his face, if anything. There was hope in his eyes and trembling in the smile on his lips.
“Hi.”
His voice was hesitant, and the cautious part of her approved of his behavior. His manner, his attitude, everything about him spoke of a quiet deference. He wasn’t going to lord this over her. If anything, she could tell he felt sorrow for what she’d been enduring.
It wasn’t like it was his fault, not really. He was a Shifter, and like the romance novels said—incredibly enough—Shifters had mates. If he hadn’t been in jail, which was his fault, they would probably have never met. It wasn’t like she ran in the same circles as The Nomads, for goodness sake.
Everything happened for a reason, she thought, even though the last thing she wanted or needed was a relationship.
She’d deal with that later. After the sweaty, hot, long bouts of sex.
Christie almost came at the thought.